was flouted by
many, defended by a few, these asked: "Was the Government of
Abd'ul-Hamid, committing all its crimes in the interest of
education, were we being trained by the Censorship and the
Bosphorus Terror for the Dastur?" "But the person of Majesty,
the sacredness of the Khalifate," cried the others. And a
certain one, in the course of his attack, denies the existence
of Khalid, who died, said he, a year ago. And what matters it if
a dead man can stir a whole city and blow into the nostrils of
its walking spectres a breath of life?

I spoke last night in one of the music halls and gave the
Mohammedans a piece of my mind. The poor Christians!--they
feared the Government in the old regime; they cower before the
boatmen in this. For the boatmen of Beirut have not lost their
prestige and power. They are a sort of commune and are yet
supreme. Yes, they are always riding the whirlwind and directing
the storm. And who dares say a word against them? Every one of
them, in his swagger and bluster, is an Abd'ul-Hamid. Alas,
everything is yet in a chaotic state. The boatman's shriek can
silence the Press and make the Spouters tremble.

I am to lecture in the Public Hall of one of the Colleges here
on the "Moral Revolution." Believe me, I would not utter a word
or write a line if I were not impelled to it. And just as soon
as some one comes to the front to champion in this land
spiritual and moral freedom, I'll go "way back and sit down."
For why should I then give myself the trouble? And the applause
of the multitude, mind you, brings me not a single olive.

Letter XXII

I had made up my mind to go to Cairo, and I was coming up to say
farewell to you and mother. For I like not Beirut, where one in
winter must go about in top-boots, and in a dust-coat in summer.
I wonder what Rousseau, who called Paris the city of mud, would
have said of this? Besides, a city ruled by boatmen is not a
city for gentlemen to live in. So, I made up my mind to get out
of it, and quickly. But yesterday morning, before I had taken my
coffee, some one knocked at my door. I open, and lo, a policeman
in shabby uniform, makes inquiry about Khalid. What have I done,
I thought, to deserve this visit? And before I had time to
imagine the worst, he delivers a card from the Deputy to Syria
of the Union and Progress Society of Salonique. I am desired in
this to come at my ea